


Special Delivery

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [31]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Azazel's Special Children, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Cannibalism, Cooking, Food is People, M/M, Murder, Serial Killer Dean, Serial Killer Sam, Stalking, Taunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6925285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does most of the cooking but Sam -- when Sam gets in the kitchen, magical things happen. </p><p>It only seems right to share that magic; they'd hate to be accused of being selfish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Delivery

_There_ , Sam says, and he tapes the handwritten note to the top of the last take-out box, puts it in the paper bag and rolls down the top twice. _All set. You wanna play delivery boy this time or you want me to_? 

_S'much as I love to see you all dolled up like that_ , Dean says, _it's my turn. Besides, your eyes are still going all funky sometimes and I know you hate the contacts._

Sam hums as Dean covers his back, nips biting little kisses onto the nape of Sam's neck. _'Kay_ , Sam says, turns around, hooks his fingers in the belt loops of Dean's jeans and rubs shamelessly against Dean. 

It has to hurt, burn, something, because Sam's naked, but Sam just makes a pleased little noise and tilts his neck when Dean noses at his shoulder, bites down hard enough and deep enough to draw blood. He pulls Dean tight, close, finally says, _Go so you can come home, okay? Got plans._

Dean grins, presses his forehead to Sam's. _Love it when you make plans, sweetheart._

 _Believe me_ , Sam says, and he licks the tip of Dean's nose, _after all these years, I know._

//

Dean makes his way to the police station, doesn't bother with make-up or a disguise or even a hat. They're in a big enough city that the cops here have other things on their mind than the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list and none of them will be phased by some random delivery guy showing up with a paper bag full of food. 

Dean walks in, gives the camera above the main desk a wink, and when the sergeant asks if he can be of assistance, Dean gives the guy a smile, says, "Dude, I'm sorry, I checked in the car but I don't have a name for this," and sets the bag on the counter. It's letting out such gorgeous smells that Dean's stomach is rumbling; he can't wait for lunch. "Paid for over the phone, though; maybe ask the boss?" 

"Will do," the sergeant says. "Thanks, man," and hands over a couple extra bucks hastily pulled out of a an old cigar box filled with one dollar bills and change.

"Hey, 'preciate it," Dean says, and gives the guy a mocking little salute, leaving without looking behind him, even when he hears the sergeant pick up the bag and walk away from the desk. 

Dean grins, going back to the Impala. He can't wait for Victor to see what Sam's come up with this time. For a man who could probably survive on come, blood, and sheer willpower alone, Sam cooks like he's a goddamned five-star chef. 

//

"Chief?" 

Deputy Chief Kenny Green looks at the door, sees his number two standing there with a paper bag in one hand and a puzzled look on his face. "Come on in, LT," he says. "What's goin' on?" 

The lieutenant lifts the hand with the paper bag. "Delivery guy dropped this off for someone, told the desk sergeant he didn't have a name, just the address. We asked around but no one claimed the food. You order anything?" 

Kenny frowns, something about this ringing a bell. He waves the lieutenant forward, gestures at the edge of his desk and then stands up. "Lemme have a look," he says. 

He's just got the bag open and is reaching in for the receipt when the lieutenant says, "Yeah, boss, name's Victor Henrikson but there's --" 

"Pull the footage," Kenny orders, grabbing the receipt but otherwise instantly rearing back from the bag as soon as that name gets from his ears to his brain. "See if we got a picture of the delivery guy. And put the desk sergeant in an interview room. Make sure no one else talks to him." The lieutenant looks confused, puzzlement deepening into bewilderment, but he nods, says he will, and leaves. 

Kenny takes a deep breath, feels bile and stomach acid and the remains of his morning oatmeal come up his throat. 

//

He calls the number on the note -- not a receipt, it's a fucking _gift tag_ \-- and as soon as the person on the other end of the phone picks up, Kenny says, "Kenny Green, Houston PD. Listen, I got a bag with some --" 

Henrikson cuts him off, just like that. "My team and I'll be there in six hours," he says, no hesitation, no question. That's -- a little odd, actually, especially from a fed. There must be more to this than the FBI's been letting on. "Don't open the bag, don't touch it, and seal up the note in an evidence bag."

"I've got the desk sergeant isolated for now," Kenny says, "but what the hell'm I supposed to do with -- with whatever's in the bag?" 

"Stick it in the freezer," Henrikson says, and then the phone call ends. 

//

It actually only takes five and a half hours before three suits come striding into the office like they own it. They flash FBI badges and Kenny's glad he's waiting for them because they don't look like they're going to stop for anything. He intercepts them before they can start harassing the guys at the front, stands up from where he'd been perched on a desk, and says, "Deputy Chief Kenny Green. This way, gentlemen." 

He leads them to the cold-storage evidence room, gives them each a pair of gloves as he takes the paper bag out of the freezer. "Didn't open it," he tells them. "What's -- the release you boys put out said it's _food_?" 

Henrikson's reaching into the bag, pulling out different take-out boxes, seven of them by the time the bag's empty. "To a certain set of people, sure," Henrikson says. Kenny doesn't get that, says as much, and Henrikson flicks his eyes at Kenny before motioning to the other two. The three feds start opening boxes and Henrikson says, "The Hannibal Lecter kind of food." 

It takes a moment for that to make any kind of sense; Kenny swallows when he realises. Fuck. Cannibals. That's not food, that's _people_. "Do I -- should I call the coroner?" 

"Wouldn't tell us anything we didn't already know or couldn't guess at," Henrikson says. "Possibly what kind of organs but the one thing this cook doesn't lack is skill; there won't be usable DNA or anything to track down the victim." 

"You been chasing 'em long?" Kenny asks. This cook, whoever helped him or her, they were in _his city_ , they were doing this right under his nose and they just waltzed in here like killing and cooking people isn't a big deal, isn't that out of the ordinary. No. _Hell_ no. "Figure out anything 'bout who it is?" 

Henrikson gives him a look, finally says, "Couple years, now, and we have a few ideas but nothing admissible. We do know there's at least half a dozen, male and female both -- and that they travel like the devil's chasing them. The last delivery before this came to a podunk little station in New Hampshire. They only used meat, then, no organs, but there wasn't this much, either," and he gestures at the table. "Tacos, barbecue, even Korean, shit. This is the first time I've seen this kind of ethnic variety." 

"Hope it doesn't mean they're getting bored," one of the other agents mutters. "Or that we have more than one vic this time." 

"Don't think they've ever limited cuisine to match race," Henrikson says, thoughtfully. "That would definitely impact the profile -- it's more OCD than we've seen before." 

Kenny shudders, steps back and away from the table. "Well, if you need anything, let us know. Desk sergeant who accepted the delivery's in Interview Room 3 for you, and we pulled tape from our lobby and surrounding CCTVs. Guy who delivered the food's a real cocky son of a bitch," Kenny adds. "Winked at the camera and everything." 

Henrikson snorts like that means something to him. "Thanks, chief." 

With that dismissal, Kenny leaves, heads out of the evidence area and back to the main bullpen. Serial killers he can handle, but cannibals? Thank god the FBI've claimed these crazy fuckers; Kenny doesn't want a damn thing to do with them except to make sure they leave his city alone from now on. 

//

Dean looks at Sam, meets Sam's grin with one of his own. _Didn't take long for ol' Vicky to get here_ , Dean says. He takes his hand off Sam's knee, starts the Impala and pulls away from the police station, into traffic. _How long you think it'll take him to realise we waited for him before ditching town?_

Sam snorts, slides across the bench seat so he can stay in contact with Dean as Dean's driving. _Don't get cocky, Dean_ , Sam warns, but any bite in the words is taken away by his smile and the tone of voice, all amusement, all affection. _He's gonna catch a break one of these days._

 _But not yet_ , Dean says. _Not while we're still having fun. And if he gets too close, we'll just hide out somewhere for a while._

_Somewhere_ , Sam says, tone turning thoughtful. _Hmm_.

Dean shudders, hearing that sound, and at the next red light, he tugs Sam close, takes his brother's mouth and leaves it shining with spit and blood when the light turns green.


End file.
